The Motley Band Crew
by Tealfrog26
Summary: In an attempt to discover peace of mind, the embittered Mr. Game and Watch agrees to set up an organization designed simply to help people. With his new partners, Yoshi, Rob, Captain Olimar, and Dr. Mario, he struggles to make himself truly care much about anything.
1. The Motley Band Begins

"The Motley Band Crew." Mr. Game and Watch declared, rather despondently. Mr. Game and Watch stood in a two room shed with Captain Olimar, Rob, Yoshi and Dr. Mario, forming a ring around a small soap box in the center. It was being used as a table and held a file with some papers sticking out. Yoshi had brought it in. The room was completely empty otherwise; the floor and walls were bare wooden planks. Through the door to Game and Watch's left was a bed, a mini fridge and an old black and white antennae based television.

"No, the Fuck Ass Dicks Gang," Captain Olimar said behind the small soap box, "It makes us sound more badass."

"We're here to help people, not…do that," Yoshi reasoned.

"Don't be a pussy, Yoshi," Olimar said as he slapped the green dinosaur in the knee cap. Olimar could not reach his head due to his height. "The Fuck Ass Dicks Gang is beast!"

Game and Watch shook his head. "No, that sounds like we want to screw them in the ass. As a collective gang."

"With our dicks," Rob added.

Captain Olimar frowned. "Well, fuck me. I ain't no bitch. And Yoshi's gay ass name makes us sound like queers."

Rob shifted around uncomfortably on the shag rug. He was deliberately looking for attention.

"What?" Olimar snapped, "Don't tell me you still think you're a homosexual?"

Rob looked down, "Well…"

"You're a fucking robot. Shut the fuck up." Olimar retorted, throwing a punch at the robot's mid section. Clanging against the metal, Olimar quickly withdrew his fist to hide the pain.

"Enough Olimar, enough," Game and Watch picked up the file on the table and skimmed over it. "How about the Motley Band Gang? That way we all have parts representing each of us in the title."

Yoshi smiled gleefully and nodded enthusiastically. Captain Olimar crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatevs, man. I don't even care. It don't mean anything anyways."

Game and Watch scratched his head. "So we're back to Crew?"

"Fuck no. Fuck that."

Game and Watch sighed. To get things straight, no one truly liked Olimar. The collective members of the Smash Mansion even formed a club, aptly named No One Likes Olimar, or NOLO for short. The club bustled with new members, and grew in number weekly. When Olimar discovered the group existed, he mistook the name to mean "YOLO," a common adage of the time used by those popular enough to justify foolish and oftentimes inconsiderate actions of unabashed self-importance. He was denied access to the club on three separate occasions, convincing him he was not "YOLO-ing" enough. Because he was as impressionable a man as any developing child, he strove to impress his peers with an egregious usage of what he considered the vernacular of the cool kids. However, his multiple refused entries into the NOLO club somehow inspired a self-fabricated form of confidence, resulting in the misconceived notion that he was cooler than the cool kids. Olimar created his own mental clique, admitting only himself as a full-time member. He fashioned a new club, known as CHOLLO, as in "Can't handle only living like Olimar." The name of this club did not sit well with the local Mexican gangsters who soon saw themselves misrepresented and felt their image confused with that of what they referred to as "that little, loco astronaut man-child."

The club was consequently disbanded when one former member, Young Link, had begun to taut around admittance to CHOLLO in the presence of a Mexican gangster while downtown. His announcement must have been construed as mocking the well-respected Mexican gang, for it was a long six weeks in the infirmary. Dr. Mario could attest to the event, and even declared Young Link dead before he was laid on the examining table. He was not, much to his dismay. Dr. Mario preferred not working to working, and doctoring seemed too much of a hassle. He was a sham of a doctor, to be certain, but since no other reasonably practiced Ph.D. in the community would agree to work at the Smash Mansion, its sole proprietor, Master Hand, had no choice but to keep Dr. Mario on the staff. He was not so constricted in Mr. Game and Watch's case, however.

Mr. Game and Watch lived in the garden shed on the outskirts of the mansion. A thin, unkempt gravel path led from the richly, underdeveloped garden to the wooden shack of a house. And since the garden consisted of only a plastic potted tree that Peach bought at a Wal-mart and a painted kiddie-poll filled of water that Yoshi had placed at the center to attempt the essence of a fountain, there was no reason for anyone to come down to the garden shed. For such a wooden debacle that now housed the "retired" smasher, Mr. Game and Watch had created quite the homey feel to it. Being situated on a dirt-desert hill with no sight of plant life, Mr. Game and Watch took it upon himself to shovel clumps of grass from the front yard of the mansion and drop it on his new property. Master Hand was furious when he saw large dug out holes before his esteemed estate, but never thought to traverse down the widely forgotten path to the garden shed. Upon being informed that Mr. Game and Watch took up residence off the garden, his response was: "Who's Mr. Game and Watch?" He immediately then went back to his work, setting up new tournaments so that he could generate an income.

These tournaments that were held at the Smash Mansion, however, were more of a ploy for cash rather than a competition to see who was the ultimate warrior. For Master Hand, and the Super Smash Brothers, too, income was pretty bleak. The tournaments, while hugely successful in the past, were now more laboriously boring symbols of amusement and fun-like baseball to a Seattle Mariners fan, or perhaps like Christmas morning for a single mother of four ungrateful miscreants. Each week a new set of battles would take place and citizens around the town would gather and pay money to see the fights. The more ridiculous and flashy the battles were, the more attraction they held. More attraction led to more people and with more people, more profit. But the people became disinterested in watching gratuitous violence. Master Hand attributed this phenomenon to the local gangs and their vile moral turpitude.

Once, in a desperate attempt to generate money for the monthly quota, Master Hand had set up a vast array of lights and amplifiers and stage effects to draw in a massive crowd. The battle would be between Mr. Game and Watch and Roy, a swordsman known for his flair in battle and flare in his swing, in a battle to determine the livelihood of their fighting careers. Mr. Game and Watch never liked the swordsman's pompous tagline or pretentious, princely ego. Roy was also a rather dense fellow despite his high birth. He would replace the water in Mr. Game and Watch's bucket-a part of one of his signature skills-with oil in an attempt to sabotage the fight. So it came to pass that when Game and Watch saw an opening to extinguish the mighty flame work of the swordsman with what he assumed was water, Roy truly flared in every sense of the word. The fire spread actually very slowly, considering the bucket could only hold about a liter of liquid and only really splashed on his torso. It was his decision to stop, drop, and roll on top of his flaming sword that would leave his face horribly disfigured and Mr. Game and Watch verily detested by the public. Roy was also sponsored by same Latino gang that took offense to the CHOLLO club, thus allowing Game and Watch another opportunity to make enemies within the community.

Master Hand was left with little choice but to sever his connection with Mr. Game and Watch. In fact, he was kidnapped by the rival gangs twice. And when interrogated about his relationship to Mr. Game and Watch, Master Hand responded: "Who's Mr. Game and Watch?" Luckily for him, the gangs had never been schooled on the art of lying. They were the two most honest gangs in the world. The last contact Master Hand had with Game and Watch was a mailed letter inviting him to leave the premises. Since then, Master Hand continued his feigned ignorance of who Mr. Game and Watch was, and never bothered him again for fear the gangs might return with a vengeance. He also took on the habit of locking the doors and windows every night.

It became known that Mr. Game and Watch had taken up residence outside the mansion by the fighters, too. They did not really care, for it always seemed they had their own problems to deal with. It did not bother Game and Watch, he did not particularly care for any of the Smashers that took up lodging in the Mansion. The only people who cared enough to acknowledge Mr. Game and Watch were the four people in his home. They were now his only friends. And that was stretching it. His apathy externalized. Mr. Game and Watch led a life of resignation now. He didn't get to pick his friends.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Olimar suddenly chanted, trailing off.

"What is it Olimar…" Game and Watch muttered remorsefully to his "friend".

"You got a fucking big ass spider." He pointed to the wall. They all turned to the wood board wall.

"Holy shit," Dr. Mario stated coolly, inching slowly toward the door. Everyone else soon followed.

"What in God's name is that?!" They all hovered near the doorway staring at the monstrous spider scratching on the wall. It was at least three feet in length and width. It scattered around like the hands of a over strung clock, and its carapace shone gold in the light.

"How did it get in here without anyone noticing?" Mr. Game and Watch asked his companions.

It was then they heard the creature gurgle out an inaudible sound.

Mr. Game and Watch focused on the monstrosity on his back wall, "Did it just speak?"

"Fuck this, this is fucking garbage-like. I can smell bad shit everywhere up in here!" Captain Olimar said as he turned to walk away, "I'm out dudes." With that he half ran, half hobbled up the path to the mansion. His short legs made him move like a circus act.

Yoshi hesitantly stepped back toward shed, and was stopped by Dr. Mario holding his arm, "Dude, that thing is the size of your head."

Yoshi shook him off, "I think it just wants to get back outside."

"Take it as my professional opinion. That thing is going to eat your balls off, man."

Yoshi looked disappointed at his choice of words. Mr. Game and Watch welcomed the brazen bravery of the kindly dinosaur, realizing that he would not have to deal with such a giant-ass spider.

"You're not even a doctor," Game and Watch pointed out. "All you prescribe are Flintstones vitamins. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"At least let the robot go in first. He can't feel." Dr. Mario pushed Rob ahead of him. Rob resisted, and skidded back behind the doctor.

"I have feelings!" He protested.

Dr. Mario shrugged, and a faint insult came from down the path outside the shed. "Pussy!"

Yoshi shook off the pseudo doctor and positioned his ear dangerous close to the gurgling body of the spider. For a few moments he stood still, listening. Then he went back outside to the others. He was smiling.

"Just as I suspected, he needs help!" Yoshi cheerfully expressed.

They looked blankly back at Yoshi. Mr. Game and Watch responded dumbfounded. "What?"

"Yeah, he says he's been cursed and he needs us to kill similar looking spiders and collect the tokens they drop and give them back to him so that the curse is lifted!" Yoshi said, believing every word.

Mr. Game and Watch was skeptical, "That sounds made up."

"We live in the most honest city in the world! How could he be lying!" said Yoshi. "And besides, this is exactly what the Motley Band Crew is all about! Right?"

Yoshi looked for the support of Dr. Mario who merely shrugged again. Rob cowered his head.

"Could you explain this whole idea?" Dr. Mario interrupted.

"Weren't you with us fifteen minutes ago when we were discussing this?" Yoshi asked.

"I was probably here, and sleeping," Dr. Mario had to think for a moment, then resided on the fact that he was probably right and nodded his head.

Yoshi sighed and proceeded to explain. "We, the Motley Band Crew, dedicate ourselves in the pursuit of helping other people solve their problems. We are the problem solvers. Our little fraternity, stationed here at this establishment, will attract and attend to the citizens of and around the Smash Mansion, for a nominal fee. We are here to aid and assist!"

Dr. Mario was taken aback, "Whoa. Dude, did I sign up for that?"

"Earlier. You signed when we guaranteed a paycheck." Mr. Game and Watch reminded.

Dr. Mario looked satisfied, "Oh. How much am I getting paid?"

"A dollar more than what Master Hand pays. Assuming we get the customers."

"Hold on, Master Hand doesn't pay me anything, man."

Mr. Game and Watch ignored his statement and begun conversation with Yoshi about the giant spider.

"So about this giant spider…I really don't think this qualifies as an assignment."

"Why not?" Yoshi asked with confusion.

"Well," Mr. Game and Watch tried to settle on the right words, "He's uh…a giant spider for one."

"The Motley Band Crew does not discriminate!" Yoshi proclaimed happily. He pulled out the file from the folder on the soap box and pointed to a section of a contract he wrote up about the organization.

"There's no reason we should be accepting an assignment from a giant atrocious spider. That speaks English."

"He said he was rich," Yoshi added in.

Mr. Game and Watch hesitated. He peeked back into the shed to take a look at the big, slimy, disfigured spider on the wall, hair and pus sprouting out from its boney segmented legs. It was hideous. Mr. Game and Watch's mind was settled.

"Alright. Let's do it. Did he leave a name?"

Looking down at his notes, he read, "Mr. Skulltula."

Mr. Game and Watch nodded while thinking of what to do. He never managed an establishment like this before. He just showed his face, fought, and got paid. He only agreed to start this help clinic at the whim of Yoshi because he was tired of the boredom that came with being unemployed. It also would give him a steady flow of cash, assuming it all worked out. So Mr. Game and Watch made his first executive decision of the day.

"Yoshi, you go talk to Mr. Skulltula and get the details of his dilemma." He directed his next statement to Rob. "And please, force him out of my home. He's disgusting."

Yoshi exuberantly bounced up and headed over to the spider, and morosely Rob followed. Mr. Game and Watch closed the door and walked back on the path down to the mansion with Dr. Mario. Olimar was waiting for them.

"So what's the situation, bro?" Olimar asked as they approached.

"I don't know. Don't really care. I'm sure Yoshi will let us know." Mr. Game and Watch did care, though. He was rather partial to spiders inhabiting his home. But more so, he wondered if this crew idea could find him peace of mind. When they reached the mansion's back door, Mr. Game and Watch said farewell to the doctor and the stout astronaut.

Once inside, Olimar turned to Dr. Mario. "How are we," he started, irritated, "supposed to get the bitches with a name like the Motley Band Crew?"

"Are you referring to bitches in the literal or metaphorical sense?" The doctor asked lazily.

"Bitches ain't no metaphor bull-shit, bitches be bitches. I say what I mean, bro, and the Motley Band Crew is a gay ass name." Of course, Olimar never actually meant what he said, and very rarely said what he meant. It was as if he was an alien to the planet and picked up the elements and speech patterns of the average douche bag in a pitiful effort to fit in. Needless to say, he was an impressionable child.

As was his custom, Dr. Mario shrugged.

"All I'm saying is we need bitches up in _this_ bitch." Olimar crassly motioned toward his pelvis.

"I mean my dick," Olimar clarified. "Not that it's a bitch, my dick. My dick is not a bitch."

Dr. Mario walked out of this conversation, unaware that it continued despite his departure.

"I figured you were confused, I don't mean to say I'm a bitch either. That much is pretty obvious, I'm like the antipathy of bitches!" A fleeting sense of incorrect dichotomy passed over Olimar. Now alone in the corridor, Olimar sighed. He felt a feckless pang building up. His stomach growled.

Rubbing his tummy, he muttered, "I need some milk up in this bitch."


	2. Gloomery and Dismality

"Sup, bitches."

Olimar smugly greeted the table nearest the door he had walked through, entering into the cafeteria of the Smash Mansion, hours after the formation of the Motley Band Crew. He was speaking to a table of female competitors, comprising of Peach, Zelda, Samus, and Jigglypuff. They glared in his direction.

These four women made up all the female competitors in the Smash Brothers tournaments, excluding the soft-spoken ice climber, Nana. Peach and Zelda, who Olimar had proudly labeled "head bitches," did not allow Nana to sit with them because she was the perfect picture of ugly average-ness. She instead sat with her brother Popo and most of the other young children on the other end of the cafeteria. As if hypocritically, these two princesses had a hard time accepting Samus completely, as well. Samus, of whom was objectively prettier than them, lacked the "bitch" attitude they had perfected themselves. She more or less acted like that of a fat troll-ish monster, of whom just had a modest dinner of whole goat stolen, instead. For example, upon greeting the heavily armored brute, she responded with a spittle of slurred words, in an aggressively bothered tone, where she would then snarl and let fall drops of her recent feast to the ground. It's why she usually was told to keep her helmet on. And also why she was told not to speak.

Jigglypuff, on the other hand, had a beautiful voice, rivaling that of choir in heaven. Or, depending on your audience, in hell. Either way, it was reported once that after hearing her self-ascribed "voice of angels," a terrorist group deviated from their suicidal intentions to run a train through an orphanage.. The story has it, after commandeering a public transit train one day, they happened upon hearing her hit single "Jigglypuff" on the radio. Emotionally touched, the extremists immediately halted the moving locomotive and made their condolences to the crew and passengers aboard. When questioned about the event, a particularly dim passenger aboard the plane had this to say: "They were really cool about it. I mean, they could have just killed us all, but they were all like 'sorry guys'. If Jigglypuff hadn't have been there, you know like spiritually and stuff, we all would be like…dead, you know? Give her the Nobel Peace Prize or something, that's what I'm saying." His message caught on. Two weeks later, Jigglypuff received a Nobel Peace Prize in the mail. It is said that the terrorist group have opened up a respectable coffee shop down in New York. Like the balloon she is, Jigglypuff was inflated with an ego to support her enormous sense of self-importance.

As Olimar walked by, they sneered in the manner in which most entitled high-school girls do. Paying them no heed, Olimar sat down at the table farthest down in the cafeteria hall-what he deemed as the coolest table. They were, in actuality, his only friends if one were to attribute any of the sort to the short, crass man, and hardly considered cool by the majority of the fighters living in the mansion. They were the type to associate themselves with Olimar, or more accurately, the type to remain largely indifferent regarding their relationship with the brash fellow. Olimar seated himself on a chair next to Rob. Yoshi and Mr. Game and Watch were sitting across the table.

"Yo, sup man?" He directed at the robot.

Despite hearing him perfectly, Rob asked, "What?"

"Wassup?" Olimar repeated.

Rob found himself conflicted. In the year he had known Olimar, every day he had been asked the same simple question: what's up? He had got to thinking that his simple answer of "nothing" was repetitive, if not predictable. So Rob began to conjure up new ways to answer the question. He felt answering with the sky or ceiling was a cliché joke and would gather him no approval, something he dearly held precious to him.

Rob looked to his food on the plate before him. He debated on whether or not answering with the obvious action in which he was, at that point in time, committing. Still, Rob felt he would be insulting the man's intelligence by such a response. "I'm consuming my food," would just seem like a jerk thing to say. Rob ruled out that possible answer.

He then pondered the idea that perhaps "sup" was slang for "how's it going," as was the case with other colloquial expressions he heard in the English language. "How's it hanging?" deeply perturbed Rob for, to him, it made little sense. Nothing was hanging, to his knowledge, and responding with a positive comment would be preposterous. Anything in the process of hanging should be, more or less, depressed by its current state of situation. This accepted vernacular perplexed Rob tremendously.

Rob could think of no solution. He had been staring at Olimar the entire time whilst thinking, and upon reaching his conclusion, quickly turned his head to his food and began awkwardly eating as if he never heard the question asked.

Olimar showed little sign of understanding, and ignored the situation as a whole. He immediately carried to a new conversation, one which he was truly interested in.

"So, what's all with that spider faggot from yesterday?"

Game and Watch shook his head in pitied disgust at Olimar's words. "He's our first client, it seems. He asked for help with something."

"With what? Sucking his cock?" Olimar laughed and looked to the others for reaction. Upon the silence in the group, Olimar lowered his laughter and altered it to a slight cough. Game and Watch continued.

"From what Yoshi gathered, Mr. Skulltula is cursed," Game and Watch looked to Yoshi for more detail.

Yoshi smiled and nodded, "Apparently, his family was cursed due to their greed. We need to hunt out every golden-backed spider in the world. He also says we need to collect each soul after we kill one."

"That sounds retarded," Olimar said, disinterested.

"They also hold a ton of money to their name, and are willing to give us a formidable sum of it should we succeed in their request."

"How much is he promising…?" Olimar asked suspiciously.

"Some designer wallets, this cute glass heart collectible, and 200 rupees." Yoshi responded, sounding satisfied.

"Are you for real? That's like…nothing!"

"Nothing is how you're worth!" Cackled a shrill voice from behind Olimar. It was the Princess Peach. They all turned to look at the insufferable woman and her usual posse. She had her usual followers—Zelda, Jigglypuff, and Samus heaving in the rear—and as soon as she saw everyone fixed on her, she pulled a pretentious flip of her hair and chuckled.

"How much," Game and Watch clarified, "it's 'how much you're worth', not 'how you're worth'."

"Pfft, cunt."

Game and Watch was taken aback by such an invalid statement, and decided to leave it alone. He did not desire more irrelevant remarks.

"What do the hell do you want?" Olimar asked from his chair.

"I heard you discussing money, and was like, yeah. I want in on that." Peach said, looking to her posse and giggling as if she said something funny.

Olimar shouted back, "Hells to the no!"

"Well hold on, pal," Yoshi intervened, "We could always use a little help from friends!"

The effeminate group giggled more, for no particular reason.

"As if!" Zelda retorted snottily.

"Okay…" Game and Watch rolled his eyes and moaned, "So you don't want to help us?"

"Stop taking things so literal! Oh. My. God," Zelda cried arrogantly, while looking to her counterparts for support, "Oh my God, right?"

"Oh my God," They all repeated in unison.

"AAARGH, shut the fuck up!" Olimar screamed, as he jumped off his chair and stomped away.

Game and Watch ignored the females and spoke his concern to Yoshi, "I thought you said he would give us more? You said he was rich. Rupees are antiquated; their exchange rate is not exactly profitable anymore."

"Oh," Yoshi remembered, "He also mentioned some kind of rumbling stone that acted like a metal detector in the presence of treasure."

"Dibs!" Peach quickly declared.

Game and Watch gave a stern glare toward the princess. "No," he started, trying to contain his annoyance, "You…are not helping us."

"Oh. My. God. I thought we like, just went over this, right? Like, right?" Her group all nodded in compliance.

"No…No. We did not agree on anything, actually."

"Whatever, we're out of here. We'll see you later. Let's go girls, we got a plan to do." Peach turned around with another flip of her hair and walked away. Zelda and the others soon followed, but not before Jigglypuff gave a provocative wink in Game and Watch's direction. He shuddered.

"How did this happen…?" Game and Watch sighed.

"Awfully unexpected, for sure," Yoshi smiled. "How fortunate for us that they offered to help to us!"

Yoshi lived a privileged life, not of wealth or fame, but of willful bliss. Unlike Game and Watch, Yoshi treasured the company of others, welcoming social contact as if they were all miracles on earth. He was not the hopeful type, for he had nothing to hope for. Everything around him satisfied and enlivened him. Some would call him ignorant, others would call him simple. Mario would refer to him as his dog, and kick him on the typical every evening that he was drunk. Never one to allow himself to succumb to disparagement, Yoshi focused on the light, the ability to do good, and that awesome adventure he went on with Mario in his youth. His privilege was that of willful bliss. And it got on Mr. Game and Watch's nerves sometimes.

Stumbling onto the scene, Dr. Mario showed up, and sat down in Olimar's empty chair. "Whawerr they doon here?" He managed to slur out of his mouth.

"Are you drunk?" Game and Watch asked, only half surprised.

"Whaaare you? My paashins?" Dr. Mario sunk his chin into his neck and gave the look of a fish.

Game and Watch truthfully admired Dr. Mario's tendency to drink, but could never gather the motivation to indulge the bottle alone. He expressed his discontent because that is what society would expect of him.

"Well, it's only half past five. And don't your clinic hours start soon?" He did not really know why he cared to argue these points. He guessed it was just habit.

"I dun see howanny of thas relivans?" The doctor mumbled. He directed his gaze toward Rob. "Whazuh wi' you?"

Oh dear God, another variation of the form "What's up?" Rob tried to convey a smile, hoping that would be the end of that line of questioning. Rob was very anxious for a mechanical being, his thoughts seemed to race far too fast to reach any finish line. Dr. Mario eyelids blinked a slow descent, theater curtains falling up and down indecisively. The doctor smiled back and shrugged. Then, as if deciding on giving his audience an encore, he sprung up and departed from the table.

"He's going to kill someone…" Rob said despondently.

Mr. Game and Watch sighed. "At least it won't be his intention."

Rob was unsure how that could make the situation any better. He had a horribly depressed robotic mind, though, and figured he simply could not understand the joke. He was unsure about a lot of things as of late, and returned to his plate.

Game and Watch stood up. "Look, I'm going back to my place. Let me know if you find any more about those spiders."

Yoshi bobbed his head up and down in response and Rob carried on eating, thinking. Mr. Game and Watch only made a few strides before Yoshi ran up to him.

"Hey, hey, I wanted to ask you something actually," Yoshi sounded as if something was bothering him, as if he knew Game and Watch would not appreciate what he had to say.

"Alright, what?"

"Are you sure you want to do this thing? You don't seem all to enthusiastic about the Motley Band Crew, you know?" He still wore a smile.

"Sure," Game and Watch said. It was his customary answer to all commitments, a word forged in some furnace of Valhalla, indomitable and impervious to any doubt of its speaker's intent, betraying nothing of its speaker's true emotions toward any responsibility. For Game and Watch, intent spoke of abstract approval, what he would like to agree to but could not promise to fulfill. For him the difference between "yes" and "sure" equated to the distinction between concrete and cement, one a solid formulated substance and another merely a reactive material with the probability to form substance. Or perhaps he was trying desperately to vindicate his tendency to rethink his decisions. The point being, he lied.

Game and Watch quickly changed the subject. "And Rob said he moved the spider out back somewhere? As in not in my house?"

"Yup! I'll let you go then. I'll let you know if I come up with a way to track down those spiders!"

Yoshi ran off upstairs to his room in the dormitory as Mr. Game and Watch continued down the corridor that connected to the garden. The floor was ornate with an opulent red carpet with golden trim. Or at least it had been before the janitorial crew had been fired. Dirt lined the paneling and mold was growing in the corner nearest the cafeteria. The floor-to-ceiling windows had enough grime to make the brightest day look foggy. The stone busts of Master Hand, all twelve that lined the hallway, certainly could use a dusting, and one was visibly cracked. Maybe even glued back together. The busts were overly pretentious anyway, and twelve of the same hand seemed rather excessive. He stayed away from them as much as he would the real Master Hand, which was not exceptionally hard since the hand was rarely seen away from his room deliberating ideas on how to pay the bills. Game and Watch heard he recruited some more poor sops as a kind of fresh faces campaign. But his fighting days were over now, and he refused to concern himself with his immediate surroundings.

Mr. Game and Watch walked alone through the rest of the Smash Mansion. The mansion was broke into four wings. There was the West Wing, which composed of all the competitors rooms; the Central Wing, which was mainly just for show; the basement contained Medical Wing; and the East Wing, being the home of the Cafeteria and the Kitchen. There were multiple floors in each wing, and more than enough rooms to house dozens more Mr. Game and Watches, but instead he lived in a garden shed. He sighed again. He had forgotten how fantastical others' lives could seem. How unfairly below average his life truly was. It was cold.

When he got to the back door leading to the garden, he began to think about the partnership he had officially created this afternoon. Not only was the Motley Band Crew a preposterous attempt at making money, each member was completely incapable of reliability.

He continued walking down the gravel path, deep in thought. It was surely unfair to clump his only friends into the category of "incompetent," but he couldn't help but feel over and underwhelmed by his situation. All he had to do was deal with his partners so that he could get enough money to live somewhere nicer. Get a respectable job in some nice neighborhood somewhere. Somewhere else.

He was approaching his house when he flashed back to Jigglypuff's wink that he received during their brief exchange at dinner. He suspected Jigglypuff had some concealed emotions toward him, and he was rather disgusted by the thought. Jigglypuff was like the fat girl you see in a candy shop, who puts too much makeup on, and is loud and boisterous and doesn't think she's ugly, and so she is really confident when she should not be, because she is really just an obnoxious, pig creature. Game and Watch did not like her. He also did not like that he just thought those things. His conclusion remained the same, he did not like her.

When he got to his shed, he opened the door, and stepped in. He felt and heard a squish as his foot grounded itself, a sound like a deflated soufflé sputtering out its final breaths, or akin to noise made by the body of an abnormally large spider releasing its important cranial organs through its eye sockets. He looked down, much to his dismay, to see his foot erect in the oozing brain matter of Mr. Skulltula. Game and Watch stood, slightly stunned. He let out a deep sigh.

"Fuck."


	3. Sordid Fries

Mr. Game and Watch hung the towel to dry on his window sill. It was bloodied and gut-matter oozed off the ends. It smelled awful.

When Game and Watch realized he had implemented the foot-inside-head situation with his spidery client, he was quite surprised to notice its body still convulsing below his leg. Confused, and slightly scared, Mr. Game and Watch lowered his foot back down, administering a hesitant half-stomp to the ailing spider. Upon squishing, Game and Watch quickly jumped back and slammed the door shut. He looked down at his gut-crusted shoe. He immediately regretted re-stepping onto the entrails of the spider's brains, and tried to cast the images—and sounds—of what just happened out of his head. Then he thought of the literal interpretation of casting something out of someone's head and was back on the scene of spidery brain guts polluting his entrance.

Mr. Game and Watch was disgusted.

It was around nightfall when he managed to fully clean his establishment up. He disposed of the arachnid deep in one of the thickets of bushes at the end of the estate's garden. He looked at his stained towel. It was ruined.

After letting out a sigh, a noise of static scraped at his ears. Something was grating his name. Game and Watch located the source of the noise to a walkie-talkie sitting on his wooden crate-table. It rasped out his name again. He picked it up and answered back into it, "Who is this?"

"Yoshi!"

Game and Watch let the air vent from his nostrils and breathed in deeply. "What is it?" he tried to asked nicely. His tone was hardly welcoming, but Yoshi was not off put.

"How is your home treating your new guest?"

"New guest…?" Mr. Game and Watch looked around cautiously until he came across the bloody towel on his window sill. "Oh…" he said to himself.

"Mr. Skulltula! I told him he could stay at your place until we found all those spider tokens! I hope you don't mind."

A gut chunk slid off the towel and sploshed onto the wood paneling below. Game and Watch grimaced.

"So how is he?"

"He's uh…fine. He's napping," Game and Watch lied. Before Yoshi could continue speaking, Game and Watched asked, "Why are we talking on walkie-talkies, by the way? Where did this come from?"

"Oh! I bought them for everyone so that we could keep in contact, for when we split up in our search for the spider tokens Mr. Skulltula was talking about." Yoshi sounded excited, even through the staticky discharge. "Why don't you wake up our guest, dinner is being served in a couple of minutes!"

"Sure, sure…I'll see if he wants to go," he answered dismissively. Mr. Game and Watch fell to his bed and placed the walkie-talkie down. He figured Yoshi would be rather cross with him if came out and explained the death of Mr. Skulltula. And, more importantly, this sudden death impaired his eligibility to receive payment from his benefactor. He was in a bad spot.

It was then Mr. Game and Watch noticed the file documenting Mr. Skulltula lying on the end of his bed. Yoshi had left it there after interviewing the spider. Game and Watch flipped through the loose leaf pages and found the spider's address. He thought to himself; if he could search the spider's home, then he could find the riches he was promised. He would find some of those cursed tokens with Yoshi and once he found his payment, he would end the job. Maybe he would tell Yoshi Mr. Skulltula was gratified and left or something. He wanted to take a vacation or maybe pay the bills; any reason would probably satisfy Yoshi. Game and Watch would just have to restrict anyone from coming into his home, lest they find out the spider was gone. Dead gone.

Game and Watch heard a knock on the door, and he winced. It was Olimar.

"Yo, nigga," Olimar said as he opened the door without waiting for a response.

Game and Watch stopped him at the door, "First of all, don't call me that, I'm not African American and neither are you. Second, you can't just walk into me home."

"Pfft, don't be such a pussy-bitch, dude." Olimar pushed aside Game and Watch and plopped himself down on a cardboard box-chair. "It's like 6:30, man, where've you been all day?"

"It's complicated," Game and Watch replied, with a stern glare.

Olimar gave him a strange look, and a moment later, a stranger look overcame his face. "What the fuck is that?" He asked, pointing toward the soggy towel drying on the window sill. "Dude, if you killed someone…" He started, panicked.

"No, no…well, yeah, but—"

Olimar threw up his hands and stood up, "Fuck, man! Fuck I'm outta here, This is some hot shit that I don't want to be a part of!"

"Relax, okay? Just relax," Game and Watch said, grabbing Olimar.

"No! I didn't see anything, I swear. Don't kill me, too!"

Game and Watch sighed. "I'm not going to kill you," he clarified, "Look; I accidentally killed that giant spider that was in my house the other day. Okay?"

Olimar calmed, "Oh…oh. Okay…"

Olimar stared down at the red puddle on the floor, fixated. "So…you want to go get dinner?"

Game and Watch considered; he nodded.

They arrived at the cafeteria, and the usual cliques were all there, eating their meals happily, ignorantly. Olimar led Game and Watch to the table in the back, where Yoshi, and Dr. Mario were seated.

The table next to them sat other rejected competitors: Nana, Popo, and Toon Link. Being children, however, did not make them hated and scorned like Game and Watch's table was. They were young and couldn't relate to the older, more supposedly matured competitors. Game and Watch feared the Bitch Clique might start trying to recruit Nana soon. Nana was of the kind sort, possibly of the too kind sort. Soft spoken and awkward, it was hard to maintain any conversation with her at all. Too kind to understand the difference between sarcasm and genuine care, and too kind that she confused most her with generic, heartfelt compliments. Game and Watch did not hate her, but he certainly did not want to be anywhere around her. She was just too god damn agreeable.

Rob, on the other hand, fawned over her. Game and Watch figured their awkwardness served as a form of magnet. Olimar thought of it all as some strange robot-child porn fetish, and Dr. Mario simply could not comprehend matters of infatuation. Yoshi, of course, wholly supported Rob's endeavor. Rob tried to become friends with the girl, but could never muster the courage to correctly respond to any of Nana's actions, of the few that there were. He was the type that would, upon departing her presence, go in for a hug when she was only trying to wave good-bye. This made Rob rather depressed. He therefore convinced himself of his homosexuality because of his unsuccessful exploits with a single female. Olimar found this as a great outlet for criticism, and made fun of Rob at every chance he could get. So when Yoshi asked Olimar and Game and Watch when they sat down:

"Where's Rob?"

Olimar prompted responded, with a laugh. "Probably slitting his wrists."

With a silent response, Olimar clarified. "Cuz he's emo and stuff, guys."

Nana appeared behind Olimar, who was still explaining his joke to his uninterested audience. Game and Watch caught notice of Nana, standing speechless with a folder piece of paper in her hand.

"Uh..uhh…"

"Guys, emos slit their wrist, that's the _joke_." Olimar stressed.

Game and Watch put his hand up to silence Olimar. "Can we help you Nana?"

"I uh…is Rob…uhmm…" She looked at the group as if she formed a complete sentence.

Dr. Mario squinted at the girl, as if trying hard to make her image out. He whispered to Game and Watch. "Is that, uhh, that retarded mountain climber girl?"

"Jesus, Doc, can you be any more subtle?" said Mr. Game and Watch.

"Sorry, sorry…is it the slow girl?" He whispered louder.

Mr. Game and Watch addressed Nana, instead of continuing with the doctor. "If you're looking for Rob, we haven't seen him." He forced a flickering smile for the child.

Under her nod and smile, Game and Watch could tell she was crestfallen. He, however, let her walk away from the table and out of the cafeteria. Soon afterwards, her brother Popo stepped up to the table.

"Whatever did my sister desire?" His voice was low and distant, reminiscent to that of a serial killer. His finger tips were delicately pressing against each other.

Popo was a bad apple, a demon-boy, a child that would probably kill his parents if he had any. That is, to say, if he had not already killed his parents. The accident regarding the sibling's parents has widely been suspected of foul play, as it would, and Popo never did talk about it much. Nana seemed to have forgotten the event all together, but Popo always showed a devilish flare in his eye when the tragedy was brought up. For ten years ago, their parents fell off the peak of the mountain top that they had just hauled their babies up. Of course, no one knows what happened that day, except Popo was found with a bloody hammer cradling in his arms when the two babies were found. No quandaries were made, however, on the account that the baby was rather fond of the hammer, and forensic analysts would have felt terrible taking away the only object that could comfort the boy in lieu of such a traumatic event. As the news covered the story, the local speedo wearing polar bear of the small mountain town was reported saying, "Well, this isn't any weirder than the pink pterodactyl that flew them down." The bear adjusted his dark shades and continued walking down the street.

All this, and, purportedly, the hammer of the USSR flag and Popo's hammer being one and the same truly cast the worst kind of suspicion onto the young lad. Rumors abound, they were not all unfounded. Popo did seem like a raving lunatic, after all.

"Was she…" Popo hesitated to lick his lips, "carrying a note, by chance?"

"Yeah, err, she was looking for Rob…" Mr. Game and Watch responded, feeling a cold chill run down his spine.

"I told her not to inquire about the parchment…I told her I would deal with it…" Popo looked to the crowd and smiled eerily, as if he just remembered he was in their presence. He gave a short bow, and backed away slowly.

Popo was very unpleasant. Either way, the mental stability of the boy was usually left unquestioned. He was an impressive fighter, when paired with his sister, Master Hand said, and that's all there was to it.

Olimar shivered. "That dude is as wet as rain, you know?"

Dr. Mario scratched his head. "Who even was that? They need, like, a dehumidifier in here, it's foggy as hell."

Game and Watch pointed to the doctor aggressively, "First, that's not what a dehumidifier does, and second, what is wrong with your eyesight?"

"What's wrong with all this fog, I think you mean. It's all thick and all judgmental. I can't tell if it even likes me!"

Mr. Game and Watch sighed; his friend was high again. But that did not explain his poor eyesight.

"And I know I did not do anything to offend it," Doctor Mario added.

"Good, that's great, he's probably just sore from waking up early," Game and Watch made up, to satisfy the delusional medical practitioner.

The doctor turned to him. "It's all so very…hazy."

"What's all this about a parchment?" Yoshi butted in. "Sounds like it could even be another job for the Crew, huh?"

"Perfect!" Game and Watch interrupted, "A perfect opportunity for you to investigate. Let me deal with that spider, alright? I want you to be fully focused on this case, okay?"

"A case?" Olimar groaned. "What the fuck, man? What's there to investigate?"

Yoshi thrust an enthusiastic finger in the air, "It sounds to me like Rob is missing, and that parchment Nana was holding has something to do with our dear robotic friend!"

"Bogus, I don't give a shit."

"No no, Yoshi is on to something." Mr. Game and Watch said emphatically, "He must be on to something. And by the time he solves this case, I'm sure we'll be done finding those cursed spiders, right Olimar?"

"I thought you killed that giant-ass spider, and we don't have to do that anymore."

Yoshi's eyes widened like saucers.

"You mean…kissed the giant-ass spider." Mr. Game and Watch struggled to mend Olimar's statement. "Yes, you must have heard me wrong over the walkie-talkies Yoshi so thoughtfully bought for us."

"Look G, I was just at your house where you explained everything-"

"About my unfortunate bump into Mr. Skulltula face, landing in the whole kissing debacle!" Game and Watch gave out a chuckle and pulled Olimar up from the table. "We're going to get going now. You and the Doc work on that case, alright Yoshi?"

Mr. Game and Watch did not wait for the response of the green dinosaur, and left him sitting at the table confused. Game and Watch dragged the stout spaceman down the aisle of the cafeteria and into the hall.

"What the hell are you doing?" He hissed to Olimar.

"Chill down, bro, I didn't do nothin'!"

"You are supposed to be keeping the spider thing under wraps, remember? If Yoshi finds out…"

"Whoa whoa, wait, that's what you're angry about?"

"What did you think?" Game and Watch was near losing his temper.

"Look dude, I can understand being embarrassed about kissing a fugly-ass spider fucker, but don't take it out on me."

Game and Watch released his hold on the spaceman, stupefied. "Wh…what? I didn't kiss him, I said that to cover for your slip up, you little fool!"

"Well, now I'm confused goddammit." Olimar threw up his hands and paced in a semi circle.

"Just…" Game and Watch let out a deep breath, "just don't speak about the spider anymore, okay?"

"Sure, whatever, man. Just don't rag on me if you got some kind of spider fetish."

"What is with you and fetishes?" Game and Watch asked defensively, "Never mind, forget it. Just get out of here, would you?"

"Shit. I'll get back to you when you're done ragin' I guess."

Olimar marched down the hall and out the door leading to the west wing. Mr. Game and Watch now stood in the foyer. The opulence of it all mocked the man. The marble grand staircase, with burnt mahogany balustrades and ruby red carpeted steps begged for attention. It was a shame the mansion was in foreclosure. He turned back toward the kitchen as the door swung open; Nana walked out carrying metal tray, oven mitts protecting her hands. She looked shocked to see Mr. Game and Watch.

"Ohh…"

Mr. Game and Watch was not in the mood for this, but he found himself spiraling into a bad decision.

"So this is where you went?"

"I…went to get my lunch. I made…uhm…garlic fries." Her genuine smile irked Mr. Game and Watch.

"Your brother was looking for you," Game and Watch replied. He felt inclined to let her know, and yet, he begrudgingly knew this might lead to an interaction with her.

"I…okay…" She looked like she had something on her mind. For Game and Watch, this momentary contact was all he could manage. He began to walk away when she muttered something about Rob.

Now, Mr. Game and Watch still could not explain his irrational apathy toward any of Nana's plights. Her overall kindness was something that had to be faked. It bothered him. But he knew she was not a deceptive individual. This bothered him more. Because of this, he knew he had to be cordial around her. He could not be cruel, because there was legitimately no reason to be. But how ever did he irrationally feel a sense of apathy to her being. But hostility was unwarranted, so he continued the conversation.

"What was that?" He asked, trying to sound interested.

"I was just wondering…where he was. I made these fries for him this morning!" She sounded very excited and proud. Two feelings that went uncared for.

She continued. "…that is, when I got his letter this morning. Would you like some, then? No use wasting them, right? They are my specialty." She seemed quite pleased, and shook the tray in his direction.

Normally, Nana would not be so imposing on another acquaintance. She was usually very quiet and reserved. Today though, she had just made her signature garlic fries, straight from scratch. It was one of the few things she was proud of, cooking that is, and was always in high spirits after making a new recipe. And today she just made her signature garlic fries, a dish that always aimed to please and was sure to put a smile across any hungry tummy. She just loved cooking her garlic fries, because she just loved to cook. And with the letter she received today, her confidence was on the up, and for one rare moment, she radiated in her pride. Oh, she quite loved life at this moment, and could not help but grin.

"No. I'm fine." Mr. Game and Watch said plainly, unconvinced that his appetite called for fries today.

But today Nana was happy. She would not take no for an answer. She insisted.

"Don't you like fries?" She asked timidly. "I thought you liked fries?"

Mr. Game and Watch could feel her sincerity. She was insisting. Mr. Game and Watch frowned.

"No, I don't want any." He tried to reply without snapping.

"But don't you like fries?" She repeated.

And there in lied the real problem. Mr. Game and Watch normally would have no qualms eating fries, and even enjoyed them on some occasions. In fact, he considered himself to be not just a fry connoisseur, but a food enthusiast, of sorts. He did not claim to know all the spices and ingredients that went into the world's consumables, but he knew he had a formidably wide palate of tastes. He discovered at a young age, for example, four types of fries. He ranked them all from most desirable to least desirable. The crinkle fry. A most wretched display of tasteless insipidity, of which the texture cannot help alleviate the loathing begotten from such a ration. Then there is the steak fry, the lard-plank. Normally cooked to a wet and soggy pulp, only strong enough to hold its form due to its fried carapace. And, of course, the straight fry. Much like what you would see at your local fast food joint, droopy and barely salted, either a burned wrinkle-stick or a limp chunk of mush.

He frankly refused to administer salt to the potatoes. They were cooked the way they were, and God strike him dead if he were to tamper with their intended design. It is why he had so much love for the coveted brew fry. Concocted with seasoning and a crispness that complemented his taste buds magnificently. It was the epitome of a French Fry; it was the zenith, the apex, the pinnacle of fries everywhere.

However, Mr. Game and Watch did not despise the initial triad of fries, no. In fact, throughout the years aboard his earthly voyage, he had come to terms that most fries would be cooked into one of those first three categories. They were easier to make, faster to fry, and cheaper to serve. Such was life. Everyone was looking for the easy way out. You want fries? Then you get this half-assed pile of wrinkle-sticks. And you will enjoy it as much as you enjoy this burger picked up off the floor. Don't worry because we sprayed it with Frebreeze, so you can be sure all the germs were effectively disposed of. Shit.

That was Mr. Game and Watch's view, anyway. He ate his fries any way they were served to him, because food was food. Shit was shit, and no one cared. It was better to be tasteless shit than vomit-inducing shit, he supposed. And, of course, much to being attributed as a tasteless substance, Game and Watch found it hard to enjoy fries. He would eat them to become nourished, and liked them as far as others liked the specials of the day at the cafeteria. They were nothing special, unless you define special as something unusual, rather, than extraordinary. It was distinctions like that that got Game and Watch angry. Serving chicken noodle soup at the mess hall, and calling it "Special of the Day", was hardly extraordinary. It was only unusual that they would serve chicken noodle soup because they normally did not serve chicken noodle soup, but instead always served the same god damned cream of broccoli. And as far as anyone was concerned, broccoli could go to hell, but Master Hand kept the kitchen serving the foul stirrup.

"Don't you like fries? They are garlic fries," she urged, outstretching her arms to reveal sog-mush sticks literally swimming in garlic butter oil. "I thought you liked fries."

"I thought you were cognizant enough to realize what edible food looks like," Mr. Game and Watch hissed back. It was at this point, after witnessing the obvious emotionally devastating impact inflicted upon Nana's self esteem, did he feel remorse.

"Oh…" She responded dumbly, her awkward step backward displayed her level of hurt feelings.

Mr. Game and Watch, still angry about the fries and now remorseful for his harsh words, was confused. He never put this much care into the world around him. It always ended in an overreaction. This was case in point. Within seconds, both Game and Watch and Nana were far apart, away from the foyer and hardly okay.

Replaying the exchange of words in his head, between what was said and why they were said, and even what he could have said instead, Game and Watch found himself, again, retreating back to his home.

Unfortunately, upon arrival to his doorstep he felt his foot squish into remnant spider guts he apparently neglected to dispose of. He despairingly opened his door, hopped to his bed and wagged his foot over the side. He then fell back across the mattress and closed his eyes.

"Fuck."


	4. The Case of the Carnal Characters

It was late at night, and Mario and Luigi were just returning from a social gathering across town. The two were undoubtedly brothers, unequivocally from the same womb, for not only did they dress near identical, but also saw the world eye to eye in most all situations. They were also most unbelievably drunk.

Their personalities were amplified, a typical reaction that alcohol is liable to induce; and they were drunk in the same fashion as all who take to dropping thirty-five shots of Smirnoff's. The brothers were startlingly inebriated, intoxicated to a point where their usual obnoxious behavior transcended that of their normal drunken bounds. They carried with them a box of Rice Krispies.

"Brah, Diiid I ever tell you WHAT HAPPENED!" Luigi inexplicably began to yell the end of his incomplete sentence.

"NO, WHATHAPPENED?" Mario slurred together, remaining on the same decibel as his brother.

"SSHUUUUUT UPP!" Luigi shouted extremely aggressively. It was on the level of anger that was only serving to portray the pure ecstasy he felt from being loud. The brothers both outwardly agreed being obnoxious was cool because they enjoyed it, and they enjoyed it because they were being obnoxious.

"NO YOU SHUUUUTTT UUUUUPPP!" Mario cried louder, to the point where it seemed his voice would give out. Their likeness to two gorillas roaring hoarsely back to one another was impeccable. The yells came from the throat, a guttural and barbaric war cry. The kind that struck fear into peasant souls in war torn Germania during medieval times. This ear-splitting raucous echoed through the night, as they approached the Smash Mansion, for another few choruses.

"Duuude, last time I was this drunk, " Luigi began, finally getting to his point, "I was walking home and I saw two girls passed out on the road." He then smiled a devilish smile. "I stopped and thought…Should I?"

"They were alone? Man, fuck, you should have nailed those bitches!" Mario raised his hand expecting a high five. Of course, Luigi was already anticipating such a congratulatory response for his short narrative. Luigi did not, however, nail any bitches. He, of course, had a notion of morality from the sermons he heard in church as a child; and considering himself a devout and religiously abiding individual, he knew what he was told was wrong. He did not question this, because he did not think. Instead, he opted to shout.

"SHUUUUTT UUUPP!' The war cry returned again.

This was what these brothers did. It was easy. It was what they found amusing, entertaining, and clever. A cleverness only so far as no one counted the three other times they began to yell inexplicably during the after-hours of the night this week. It was a commotion Mr. Game and Watch had to deal with nearly every night. He figured the brothers felt being loud was the same as being important. He had to disagree. For tonight, as usual, they woke Mr. Game and Watch as they entered the back gates of the mansion.

They had to go in through the back gates now to avoid the desperate tabloid journalists out in front. Master Hand was fed up with the bad reputation his fighting tournament was getting for admitting a pair of "drunken douche bags" to participate. This was bad for business, and attendance was already on the low after the "Day Santa and Jesus Died" scandal. Although, Master Hand could not simply stand up to the two most popular fighters in his mansion, so instead he tried to be friendly with them, insisting them to use the back door out in the garden. Master Hand was a pushover. Mario and Luigi knew it.

"Hey…what if we poured some of this cereal on G-man's doorstep?" Luigi snickered.

"Dude, I don't care!" Mario responded, in a way that certainly did not convey a sense of an unbiased attitude at all.

Perhaps time should be delegated to explain that, normally, Luigi was the more soft spoken of the two brothers. However, whenever one hit the bottle, the other instinctively followed. It could almost be described as one of those sibling senses, or a brotherly bond. That is to say, a Brudda'ly bond. They were more 'bros' in the figurative way that the literal now. Like two college roommates that have everything in common with each other. Such as sports, and scoring whores, and the like. But still, sometimes Luigi would give a head nod, or a gruff 'what's up' to Game and Watch as they passed each other in the mansion. Game and Watch never returned a greeting, though, for he was always baffled at the level of civility Luigi could show when he was not around his brother. And, surprisingly enough, those head nods did go a long way.

Still, the two brothers decided on pouring a handful of rice-brand cereal on Game and Watch's door step. Mr. Game and Watch would have never found out until morning if the brothers' drunken stupor had not compelled them to giggle so noisily and so incessantly. By the time Game and Watch opened the door, the brothers had scampered out of sight, already behind the hedges at the end of the dirt path that led back to the central garden. He looked down to his feet and saw the breakfast cereal. He was not angry, per se, for this stunt was rather low on their scale of inane boondoggles. In fact, Game and Watch was quite collected, for being awoken at four thirty in the morning. He turned to his left and grabbed his dust pan and brush, and swept the rice grains up. The Krispie-bits kept sticking to the door mat's prickly material, and it took Game and Watch slightly longer than he would have hoped, but he finished soon enough. He propped himself back up and looked around for his garbage can, only to find he was out of bags to line the interior. He simply placed the dust pan on a crate and walked back to his bed. Maybe it was because Game and Watch had already exploded on Nana that evening that prompted him to check his anger, or perhaps his calmness derived from the fact that Mario and Luigi bothered him interminably with their tomfoolery almost every day, and their repeated offenses had succeeded to dissipate what Mr. Game and Watch could describe as emotion. Either way, Game and Watch was, indeed, very cool.

Then his walkie-talkie started to spew more of its despised staticky discharge.

"Hey Game and Watch? Hey, just wondering how it's going? I don't know if I'm waking you up or anything, but I've gathered some information about Rob. He's definitely missing."

It was Yoshi's cheerful voice. Ignorant, and cheerful. Game and Watch contemplated not answering the call. He should be asleep. But it would be light soon, and the sunrise would only disrupt his slumber. Mr. Game and Watch begrudgingly snatched up the walkie-talkie and answered back.

"Go ahead," he mumbled.

"Oh, hey Game and Watch, sorry if I wok-"

"Just go ahead…" Game and Watch groaned indignantly, almost threateningly.

"Okay, well you need to see this note we found. It's the one Popo was asking about yesterday. I mean, the one that Nana was holding around. You should see this."

"Fine," Game and Watch agreed, his eyes heavy. "I'll see it in the afternoon for lunch."

"Oh. Well. Me and Dr. Mario are already outside in the garden. We were going to show you now."

He should not have answered the walkie-talkie. Mr. Game and Watch sat up from his bed he recently laid down in. He focused on the wooden planks that formed the wall beside him. He channeled his anger with a sigh. Game and Watch whipped the sheets off of him and walked over to the window. Yoshi and the doctor stood at the end of the dirt path.

"Mr. Game and Watch?"

Game and Watch looked at the walkie-talkie with regret. "Yeah. I'm up. Come on in."

He tossed the transceiver onto a towel stuffed in a corner, near his bed. He rubbed his eyes to try and wake up. He dropped down on his makeshift crate-chairs and propped his elbows up on the table top. As he was massaging his forehead, Yoshi knocked on the door. He poked his head in.

"Game and Watch?"

Without really fishing for any answer, Yoshi opened the door and smiled to his friend at the table. Dr. Mario followed him in looking gravely tired. Yoshi stepped over to the table and slapped down the aforementioned note.

"Take a look at this!"

'I LUV YOR GENITULS' was crudely written across the note. Each word spelled out with oddly shaped letters glued on from different magazines. Rob's name was signed on the bottom. Mr. Game and Watch winced at the message.

"What are we, living in children's nursery? Who writes this?" Game and Watch said, trying not to sound too flustered.

"Well, I think we can safely say, not Rob!" Yoshi stressed emphatically, with a finger in the air as if ready to make a point. The doctor and Game and Watch looked expectantly at Yoshi for elaboration. Feeling the pair of eyes on him, Yoshi continued his thought. "Rob doesn't speak like this, guys. I don't think he would write something like this."

"Maybe he's just really good at repressing the sexual deviant inside him." Dr. Mario replied, in a half tired, half joking way.

Yoshi did not receive the thought as a joke, and took slight offense to it. "No, Rob is a robot, and I'm pretty sure they don't have feelings. The concept of love, for him, is outlandish! So with that knowledge, it's obvious, then, that Rob has been kidnapped!"

Mr. Game and Watch struggled to follow, for his mind had still not yet fully awoken. "I don't…I don't think we can jump to that conclusion off of what you have presented Yoshi. He's only been gone for a day, maybe he went out for the night with some friends or something."

Dr. Mario let out a soft chuckle, "Dude, he's a robot. He doesn't have friends."

"Other than us, that is," Yoshi chimed in. "So the only explanation is someone is setting him up with this depraved letter, and kidnapped him so that he could not defend himself against suspicion."

"Or, after sending the letter, he just died of embarrassment," Dr. Mario offered in. Yoshi cast a disapproving glare at him. "You have to admit, man, it's kinda funny. I mean, I'd be embarrassed if I wrote that."

And suddenly a voice sounded from the doorstep. One eerie and quiet, calm and focused.

"So. You enjoy rice krispies from a dust pan over French fries, do you, Game and Watch? I see."

Mr. Game and Watch jumped in his chair, noticing Popo standing at his doorstep. He was staring down at the mess the Italian brothers made just a half hour before; his hands were clasped so that his pointer and middle finger were placed delicately on the edge of his lips. His mouth was curved, displayed a hardly perceptible smile.

"Christ! How did you get in here?"

"The door. You little fool." Popo stepped him, staring into Game and Watch's eyes as he moved. "But you're not the reason for my arrival. I see you have taken up the case of the Carnal Characters. I will not allow my baby sister to be defaced in this manner, so I beseech you; tell me all that you know of this promiscuous piece of parchment.

"I thought you were twins?" Game and Watch asked.

"I thought she was your wife," said Dr. Mario surprised.

Yoshi scanned the note quickly. "I don't think we can tell you that much, to be honest."

Popo reformed his hands to meet his lips. "So be it. You wish to compete, then. You will rue this day, for when I find Rob…he will be mine to deal with. And deal with him, I will." Popo swiftly turned around and swept himself out of the shack.

"That kid is creepy as hell, man," Dr. Mario shuddered.

"He's still just a kid." Game and Watch said, in an attempt to reassure both the doctor and himself.

"Now what do we do?" moaned Yoshi penitently. "I can't read anything more from this letter, and we have no leads."

"Not to mention that demon kid is going to kill Rob." Dr. Mario reminded them.

"He's not going to kill anyone," Game and Watch responded.

But Mr. Game and Watch was not particularly convinced with that. Popo was the sort that could easily be a silent, and deranged, serial killer, that no one would see coming. Except, everyone did suspect it, and everyone kept their distance. That is, to say, everyone but Toon Link. It was well known, and not entirely understood, that the boy was always around Popo. Perhaps as a fledgling apprentice, or an unwavering fan, or a tamed pet. Toon Link could manage to stick around the possessed being for longer than most, without contracting the type of striking fear acquired when standing in his presence for any measure of time.

It should be mentioned, though, that Toon Link was of the simple folk. He was born on a desolated island, inhabited by an alarming amount of old, miserly creatures. Thousands of miles of crashing waves separated the boy from all manners of civilization, leaving his impressions to be molded by that of those closest to him on the island. For Toon Link, a hysterical swordsman taught him everything from fighting forms to table manners. If one could call slicing a Thanksgiving Day turkey with an overhead cleave from a Nordic Battleaxe table manners. Albeit, it was great practice for Toon Link's battle against Robo-Tyranno-Turkey that almost devastated Windfall Island the year before. Of the residents that lived through the assault, one was reported saying this of the hero-boy: "I can't fucking believe a giant robot dinosaur turkey exists." It was that encounter that raised the boy to stardom, securing him a place as one of the newest aficionados of the Smash Mansion. He was a simple boy, indeed.

"We have to keep tabs on Popo, that way we can find Rob before him." Yoshi said, breaking Mr. Game and Watch's train of thought.

"Toon Link…" mumbled Game and Watch. "Go and see Toon Link. He always hangs around Popo."

Mr. Game and Watch gave the suggestion more so in hopes the two would leave him so he could finally go back to sleep. He did not want to think any further, and was desperate to fall back on his bed. To his relief, Yoshi was wholly satisfied with the idea and jumped up from his seat. Yoshi ushered Dr. Mario towards the door, excited. He stopped, though, after stepping outside and turned to stick his head back in the shack. He had a look of bewilderment.

"Where's Mr. Skulltula?"

Mr. Game and Watch mumbled incomprehensible words as he hurriedly closed the door on his friends. He was glad Yoshi did not persist on an answer because he could not effectively craft a lie in his current exhaustion, and walked back to his bed. Falling down onto the mattress, Mr. Game and Watch groaned as his mind began to wander. He was too much awake now, and he could not halt his brain from contemplating. He thought more of Toon Link, and of Popo, and the note. He thought of Rob.

* * *

Rob was a thinker. An over thinker, Rob would admit. He knew it himself, but he could not help it. He also could not help whispering under his breath the word "taxi" when spotting a yellow cab drive past his optical receptors, but that was another matter completely. It could have been programmed into his database, but Rob knew it was not so. In fact, he could refrain from uttering the word whenever he wanted. He just required control. Or perhaps, rebellion. However, following the status quo was important to Rob, and breaking from the norm seemed awfully unnecessary. He saw no reason to change an unflawed system. Except that he never saw anyone else whispering "taxi".

But that was the least of his worries, for now he seemed to be shrouded in darkness. The darkness one might find under a child's bed at midnight or, possibly, akin to that moment when a professor re-administers those overhead incandescent lights to the classroom after a showing of a movie or presentation of some sort that required the use of a projector; however, rightly opposite that. Rob, though, never had to deal with such an injustice upon the eyes, because he was a robot, and robots did not harbor eyes within their cranial carapace. He had only heard about this plight of humanity from fellow child residents of the mansion. Children, as Rob saw it, complained a lot. They were also largely happy for the disproportional ratio of complaints to compliments. This perplexed the robot. He never received many compliments.

All this thinking got Rob thinking even more. About children. About Nana. He did not know why he was thinking about her, but he hated himself for it. All this thinking got Rob hating himself even more.

"This is pointless…" Rob said with a sigh. And his sigh was only just a despairingly low tone, carrying the spoken word for a moment longer than his voice box normally would carry a note. Peculiar. Rob supposed it sounded more like a groan, and nowhere even near a sigh. A mechanic groan, programmed to sound like groans one would hear from an everyday elephant or failing automobile. Manufactured. But elephants were not manufactured like automobiles, so the comparison was hardly apt.

Rob was thinking again. He was in a mysterious room, with no light to clue him in as to his whereabouts. He was probably in serious danger. Rob was thinking about elephants. And elephants were nothing like Nana. Rob began to suspect he had little idea what was actually going on. Defeated, he responded to the situation in a similar fashion to that of his human counterparts he so desperately clung on to; and in a most noticeably mechanical way at that. He was worried he might declare it falsely.

"Fuck…?"


	5. Concerning Rob

Toon Link sat alone in his room that Sunday morning. It was very much too early for the young boy. He dropped backwards onto his pillow and closed his eyes. The sun shone through his curtain-less windows, and a stinging blanket of light crawled under his eyelids, forcing Toon Link to roll over on his stomach. Soon he began to asphyxiate himself against his pillow and lifted his mouth to breathe. His clock read somewhere between five and six in the morning. Toon Link was never really good at reading sundials.

His face rubbed uncomfortably against the warm dryness of his pillow case. He tried to puff it out, so it lay more pleasurably, but a rod of bark stabbed through the sheet and cut the boy. Its stuffing consisted of leaves and small twigs, and other various woodland components. Toon Link was never really good at stuffing pillow cases either.

He finally threw his legs over the bed and, quite obliviously so, stepped over to the burning window. He was so oblivious because on the other side of his thinly crafted dormitory door Yoshi and Dr. Mario were knocking. He paid no attention to the loud rapping on the door, or, more accurately, paid little heed to it. Instead, he commented on the sunny day as he observed the garden from his window.

"What a sunny day," He said to himself. Then, as if struck by a brilliant idea, smiled and pronounced quite deftly, "What a SunDay!"

Toon Link was never really good at jokes.

But it was not all his fault, for he was born on a primitive island, with primitive customs, and primitive resources. For instance, wool was not imported to the lonely island of Outset, which made pillow stuffing a rarity. Rather, nothing was imported there, for most of the civilized world largely forgot of Outset's existence. Their "intensity of need" was, argued cosmopolitan economists, lacking. Surely Africans had it worse; Outset Island at least had hogs. However, one of the savage families of Outset held a monopoly on the possible porkly export of pigs. Instead, the pigs were kept penned up from the rest of the island, and Toon Link earned his wages guarding and gathering pigs for the Pig Baroness of Outset. She was a burly pig of a woman, herself, and many attributed her collection of hogs to her crumbled self esteem. She would deny this accusation, and carry on to eat her way past her sorrows.

But Toon Link never took heed of any advice she bestowed on to him. The selfish and piggish mannerisms of the woman sunk as deep in Toon Link's mind as a bushel of potatoes in a puddle of vomit. The potatoes would soak in the esophagus excrement, no doubt, and maybe attain a corrosive countenance, for sure, but nevertheless, the thick skinned tater would maintain its identity. Such foul drippings could not corrupt that potato. But that is not to say that bushels are unable to be altered, for that would be foolish. No, potatoes can be carved into a myriad of edible consummations with just a pinch of grease and ambition.

That being said, Toon Link learned his idiosyncrasies from the local fighting dojo on the island. This dojo was not so much a brawler's den as it was the small hut of a crazy fisherman. He would not admit to the occupation of gathering ocean-dwellers—he was, unquestionably, a bona fide master swordsman. Now, he did not own a blade of any sort, but rather held tightly to a long stick he had found one day while out for a walk. He was elderly and senile, and his pair of eyes were not what they were, and he believed he had discovered, in that stick, what must have been in his mind an extremely blunt katana, and brought the wooden stick everywhere, quite satisfied in his find. He did wish for a real student with perhaps a sharper weapon than his; so that when Toon Link stumbled upon a real sharpened sheet of metal, pointed at the tip and formidable in grip, the old man positively beamed with delight.

"Now take me to the sun!" He would scream in ecstasy as Toon Link delivered his practice swings on the old man. This utterly confused the child, but he was afraid to cross his sensei. He accepted the wild claims as the divine word of the gods; and himself—the laity—could not fathom such sacrosanct axioms. This is why when his old master yelled out during sparring, "Stuff your pillow with twigs!" Toon Link did as he was told. Toon Link was not much of a thinker.

So that was the case with the child, and when Yoshi asked from the hall if Toon Link could possibly think about opening the door, he responded in turn by letting Yoshi and the Doctor in without much consideration.

"Welcome friends," Toon Link greeted. "What a _Sun_day."

His joke fell flat, not for lack of trying, but for lack of ingenuity. Yoshi flashed him a smile of pity and the Doctor gave a look of mild disgust.

"Hey Toon Link," Yoshi said with a quick wave. "Me and Doc wanted to ask you a few questions about Popo and Nana, if that's okay?"

Toon Link gave a nod, and Yoshi smiled and turned to Dr. Mario. "Doc, could you take out the notebook and jot down some stuff while we talk?"

Before answering, Dr. Mario searched his coat pockets to assure himself he was in possession of said notebook, and upon feeling it, responded rather apathetically. "Sure."

Pulling out the pad of paper, Dr. Mario surveyed the room. Being so early in the morning, his mind was yet to be corrupted by the perception altering substances he so frequented; and when he scanned over the pillow of twigs and sundial at the window, he felt more irritation at the obtuse eccentricities than he normally would.

As Yoshi talked to the child about the habits of Popo, Dr. Mario continued to survey the room, rather than take notes. He did not care too much for writing, and only kept the notepad in his coat as a doctor's obligation, and when forced to prescribe prescriptions for patients, he tended to favor telling his patients to "sleep it off".

How peculiar, he thought. His eyes stopped on a thick, hard-covered book, with the words "The Holy Testament" down the binding. How could a kid of Toon Link's age even understand such a complex text, unless he was raised under the doctrine since birth? And how repugnant, he thought. To be indoctrinated under a code of moral law since birth, as Doctor Mario had immediately assumed was the case with Toon Link, upset him. It was not religion that bothered Dr. Mario, though; it was the devotion to an idea like religion. He was incapable of resting his mind on a single set of beliefs, partially because his mind could not rest from the constant state of flippancy he normally induced upon himself. How complicated the idea of ideology was, he thought. Dr. Mario was starting to get hungry.

Unbeknownst to the doctor, "The Holy Testament" in Toon Link's room was tailored by his old Sensei from Outset Island. For seven long years, the fisherman recorded his musings into a journal. This journal, more or less, became the hard-covered gospel now lying on the boy's headboard. Scrambled proverbs and fantastically absurd adventures of the man littered the book, serving more as a diluted autobiography than a doctrine on faith. The story of "Isaiah and the Sky Squirrels" in the Book of Creation particularly enamored the boy. It was more complex than Dr. Mario imagined. And more complicated than he cared to know.

"In that case, would you care to join us?" Dr. Mario heard Yoshi ask pleasantly.

"Well sure, buds!" Toon Link nodded emphatically. His smile suddenly reversed into a frown as his shoulders slouched. "But wait, what if Popo gets mad at us for spying on him? I don't like when people are mad."

He spoke in that way foreigners do when they do not rightly understand the personality of cultures different than their own. Like he was nervous of overstepping his place, and felt shame for asking the slightest question of clarification. Humbling as it was, Toon Link was often looked upon as strange and undesirable to most of the mansion because of this trait. This moral dilemma struck an obvious nerve in Toon Link's guilt receptors. His face was washed over with a certain abject distress. Yoshi bit the side of his lip, and winced an eye, unsure how to respond in a positive way. Dr. Mario slapped his notepad back into his coat and looked at Yoshi with a glare. His stomach was rumbling, and he stood impatiently before the guilt-stricken confederates while they tried to work out the moral ambiguity of their plan. Dr. Mario weaved his pencil through his fingers in irascible discord, flicking the eraser with his thumb at each cycle.

Yoshi strained the magnanimous hemisphere of his brain for any consolation, but came up empty. He himself did not even think spying on Popo could be a wrongful act. He was ever so focused on Rob, that he forgot to take into account the feelings of the young mountain climber who vowed to kill Yoshi's mechanical friend.

Toon Link stood awkwardly silent, struggling to think of a socially acceptable way break the tension in the room. Yoshi looked verily uncomfortable, and Dr. Mario's continued to snap on the pencil's rubber end, producing a noticeably unremarkable squeak every couple seconds. He needed a joke. He needed to lighten the mood, he induced. A break in the tension, he remembered pronouncing in his head. A SunDay morning—he reminisced his earlier joke. Sunday morning, morning breakfast, and a break from tension? Break-Fast, he thought. It could work, he concluded. He carefully constructed a sentence that would successfully incorporate his thought process, and soon crafted the line perfectly.

"We need to break this tension with some breakfast."

Toon Link was in such rapture that his joke manifested in actual word, that he barely noticed that it was Dr. Mario that gave the deliverance; and a rather disinterested deliverance at that. And, in fact, Dr. Mario in no way intended his sentence as a pun of any kind, and was more thoroughly invested in filling his stomach. Toon Link laughed any ways, and a decibel too loud in the silence that followed Dr. Mario's command. Dr. Mario was filled with mild disturbance in this characteristic. Dr. Mario could not like Toon Link, any more; it was decided.

Not entirely unsure how to respond, Yoshi scanned the room for a time displaying device, but came up empty noticing only the sundial at the window. Yoshi winced his eye again, creating a sort of half-uncomfortable smile when his cheek rose up. He figured the time to be quite early in the morning, as the sun was low in the atmosphere and the morning dew, he noticed from his walk from Mr. Game and Watch's home to the mansion, still whetted the grass outside, so the cafeteria would not be filled with the usual ten o'clock hustle and bustle.

"There'll be no lines this early, so we'll be able to get our breakfast fast." Yoshi said matter-of-factly.

Toon Link let out a lengthy chuckle that far exceeded the normal duration of a laugh. "How quickly do they produce puns," Toon Link thought as he snickered. He wished he could be so quick and clever. Toon Link enjoyed their presence. It was decided—the child would become their friend.

Mr. Game and Watch had got a radio call to meet Yoshi at the cafeteria, but because of his sleepless night, he felt obliged to decline. He went to sleep for another half an hour. However, the longevity of his rest became in peril, as Olimar rapped on his door for a solid fifteen minutes. Game and Watch got up reluctantly, as if to only extinguish the noise that was permeating into his sleep, and let him in.

It was a rather mild morning and Mr. Game and Watch appreciated that. Because of his naturally dark skin color, (he was careful not to label himself "black", but could not determine what exactly he was, instead), any amount of warmth in the atmosphere absorbed into his body. This hot and clammy feeling would prompt his body to sweat profusely, so that if he had any tangible clothing it would be unequivocally ruined by day's end, no doubt. Even cold days were bothersome, for then he would need to adorn himself in heavy coats to ward off freezing. And those heavy coats produced warmth inside, heating his torso, and thereby, signaling his body to sweat all over.

But it was a mild morning, and this at least made up for his exhaustion. Olimar's presence, however, mitigated that feeling, and Mr. Game and Watch was back to feeling miserable.

"Bro, I heard you got some girly shit over'ere?" Olimar rushed his words after scanning the room.

"What?" Mr. Game and Watch followed Olimar's gaze to the note on the table.

"Yeah, man, Yoshi was just telling me all about it all. Like you gots texts from girls that you can't figure out and stuff. I'm fucking expert in girl texts, man, hit me up with it!" chirped Olimar excitedly.

Mr. Game and Watch could not help gape at the preposterousness of Olimar. It was not a gape that occurred because Game and Watch had not a clue as to what Olimar was referring to at this instant, but rather; Game and Watch rarely ever understood the words coming out of the little man's mouth, and, thus, the gape.

"Dude." Olimar looked condescendingly at Mr. Game and Watch. He repeated himself, for what he thought added emphasis. "Dude."

"What?" Game and Watch snapped, while begrudgingly shaking his head. "What the hell do you want?"

"Calm down, shit head—Christ." Olimar smiled awkwardly and took a step toward the note on the table. It was the very same note that Yoshi had brought to Game and Watch's door that morning.

"What the fuck is this?" He quickly read over the message and immediately burst out laughing. "What the _fuuucck_?"

Mr. Game and Watch walked over to the table and took the note from his hands. He sighed and gave Olimar a disapproving look.

"You realize this isn't Rob's, right?" He witnessed Olimar's laughter quiet down. "Someone cut out magazine characters and glued them on to this paper."

This explanation jogged Olimar's memory of his conversation with Yoshi and Dr. Mario earlier at breakfast. Yoshi had told him of his difficulty in extrapolating anything from some letter and magazine characters, and Dr. Mario clarified these characters as "feminine text". Olimar did not remember anything else of the conversation, for he had jumped up and left after defining "feminine text" as "girl texts"—the kind generally sent via the mobile phones of the time. This was something Olimar felt he could relate to. And he leapt at the occasion to misinterpret it.

Olimar did not tend to make time for thinking very often. He did not altogether dismiss it; he only had trouble determining the vital parts of conversations, as his attention span was of an inexcusably low echelon. He did not purposely ignore Yoshi's trouble, just as he did not intentionally dismiss the reason why Toon Link was sitting at his table that morning—"his table" because he childishly carved his name to its surface—but Olimar seemed unable to physically pay attention to events of varying significance. He had his own order that he disproportionately held above others, and because of this came across as crude and inconsiderate.

"Whatever man, just where are the text messages at?" As soon as he finished the sentence, Olimar was struck with humiliation. He had, just seconds ago, demystified the misinterpretation of "female texts" from "feminine text", yet he still made a dumbfounded remark that he felt unjustly exemplified his stupidity, of which he was fully aware was a real part of him. He quickly spat out, "Just never mind all that, what's this stuff any ways?"

"Rob's missing, and it looks likes someone is trying to embarrass him with this letter," Mr. Game and Watch put it simply.

"That doesn't even make any fucking sense," Olimar whined meekly. He mustered up confidence with more profanity. "Why would someone fucking kidnap that queer and bitch around with a note like this?"

"Well, no one said he was kidnapped," Game and Watch clarified. He did not want to jump to conclusions, like Yoshi had earlier that morning. He feared Yoshi would try to recruit everyone on the search, too, and judging by the breakfast rendezvous that Game and Watch neglected to attend, his supposition was correct. And if there was something worse than Yoshi pestering him about inconsequential matters, it would be Olimar rapping on his door every hour of the day pestering him about inconsequential matters.

"But…" Olimar steadily regained his composure, "Fuck. That's so stupid, though. Who fucking does that?"

Mr. Game and Watch frowned. He did not want this to belabor on. It was not that Mr. Game harbored no care for Rob, because Rob was actually one of his few friends that he could tolerate on most occasions. The _fact_ that Rob was scared and alone somewhere at the mercy of his kidnappers would surely dent the shield around Mr. Game and Watch's heart; however, the _theory_ that Rob had been stolen away produced no emotion in him at all. So this silly speculation bothered the exhausted Game and Watch, for he was rather tired.

"Here's what I got," Olimar barked. "So these bitches went out and kidnapped fag-Rob, right? And I say bitches because these letters are, like, fucking definitely from fucking, like…vagina magazines. Like, the ones Peach-bitch reads all the time with her bitch-cunt friends," Olimar's mind was racing, and his brake pedal was metaphorically jammed. "So those sluts kidnapped Rob or some shit, made a note to get our attention on finding him. Then they go and, like, uh, look for that fucking giant spider-ass bitch so they can find out where he's keeping all his money. You know, they do that because we're supposed to be busy looking for Rob and shit, and so we'd be leaving the spider alone."

Most would assume Olimar was either rambling on a drunken rant, making a joke, or both; but he was quite serious. Olimar remembered Peach and her gaggle of confederates showing interest in Mr. Skulltula's payment for their assistance, and he was positive the characters on the note were cut out from a magazine familiar to those read in the company of the gaggle. Olimar was convinced, and beamed a smile of pride.

"No," Mr. Game and Watch moaned belligerently. "That doesn't make any sense at all. You are an idiot."

"Fuck you, dude, it makes perfect sense!" Olimar spat back.

Game and Watch was emotionally and physical distraught, and as a result became very hostile. "Then why hasn't Peach been here at all this morning? Why the hell hasn't she, then?"

"Dude, it's only, like, fucking eleven o'clock," Olimar continued to defend himself. "It's early as balls!"

"Early as balls? That's fucking retarded!" Mr. Game and Watch heightened the level of his voice to the point right below a yell. Anymore and Mr. Game and Watch knew he just might lose his temperament completely. He briskly stepped to his window ledge and let his head bang against the glass pane. He could feel Olimar staring at him, unable to comprehend his sudden outburst. When he opened his eyes to regain his composure, down the stretch of dirt road outside two figures clad in pink were sneaking toward his door. It was Peach and Zelda, crouch walking with difficulty in their long royal dresses, through the middle of broad daylight.

Olimar could not be right, he believed, but still Game and Watched sighed with a hint of bewilderment because he knew he could not explain this, and murmured a single word rather lightly.

"Fuck."


End file.
